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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016132">The Egg Made Me Do Bad Things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefandomwolf/pseuds/Thefandomwolf'>Thefandomwolf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Blood Vines, Cannibalism, Corruption, Dark, Dream Smp, Gen, Gore, Hearing Voices, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Mind Manipulation, Mutilation, Self-Cannibalism, Self-Mutilation, Serious Injuries, autocannibalism, no beta we die like wilbur, please heed the warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:15:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefandomwolf/pseuds/Thefandomwolf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Awesamdude came stumbling out of the egg holding twelve pieces of his own rotting flesh. He hadn't had a choice. He was starving. It made him. He swears it made him do it. It got in his head. The voices were so loud. He just wanted it all to stop. Please believe him, it made him do it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>None</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Egg Made Me Do Bad Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please for the love of god read the warnings.<br/>This is based on Awesamdude's latest Stream "I am Suffering..." and Tommyinnit's stream "My Friend's Gone Missing". Sam was tricked and dropped into an obsidian box that was on top of the egg in order to corrupt him. He came out of the box over 14 hours later holding rotten flesh and saying it was his flesh that fell off of him and he had to eat it. This is the story of what I think happened in the box. Also, another warning: the egg talks to sam with multiple voices which convince him to do things. This is just overall really dark.<br/>Also, grammar errors at the end are intentional.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sam hugs himself tighter in the small space. He is curled up as small as he can be. The cold presses through his armor. It is pitch black with the obsidian surrounding him. He can see absolutely nothing, but he can feel something. Something crowding around his brain. He feels a pressure against his head, poking and prodding, looking for a way in. He buries his head into his knees, hoping and trying to protect himself, but the pressure doesn’t let up. In fact, it is increasing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam started to hear whispering, so quiet he isn’t sure if it is actually there. But it stays a constant stream of noise, a hum in the background. It slowly starts to get louder. “Hello!” Sam calls out, wondering if maybe someone was in the egg room. “Hello! Is anyone there?” he yells. The buzzing of voices in his ears increases. Sam wants to stand up, bang on the blocks like he had when he had first fallen down, but the noise feels heavy, oppressive. It weighs on his limbs and clouds his mind. He stays sitting down where he is even as he begs himself to get up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whispering gets faster, louder, the intensity escalating. Sam slams his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out. Instead, the voices peak to a crescendo, breaking through his skull and impaling him with the illness, the urge, the need to do as it says to just make it stop. Please make it stop. It shrieks in his mind, drowning out any other coherent thought besides begging for mercy. He feels the voices, the power, dig into his mind and pull the very strands of him apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s screaming, he can’t hear himself but he knows he’s screaming. His throat feels wrecked and torn. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know what’s happening, he doesn’t even know who he is. All he knows is the power in his mind ripping him into fragments. All he remembers is how to beg for it to stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly, <em>it tells him how to make it stop.</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With no hesitation, Sam clambers to his feet. His hands scramble to the latches on his armor, he struggles in his haste to unclasp them before ripping off the protective gear. He then fumbles for his weapons, throwing them all, the hours and hours of hard work and pride, down onto the ground without a second thought. He pants in exhaustion in the blessed silence of the aftermath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no good things last forever. Within a minute of him catching his breath and slowly collecting his thoughts a wave of noise crashes into him. It’s not pleased yet. He struggles not to crumble underneath the force, the anger, of the voices. It lets him know with all its fury and power that he is not done yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t breathe. His lungs feel like they’re collapsing. His skull feels like a cracked window, a spiderweb of splinters covering the whole thing, ready to shatter into pieces at any moment. He can hardly move. Despair washes over him. He pleads for mercy, though he does not know whether he cries it out or begs inside his head. He can’t tell the difference anymore. The voices are relentless though, bombarding him, telling him that he already knows what he needs to do in order to make the pain go away. Sam’s vision is blurry as he shakily starts taking everything out of his inventory and drops them onto the ground. He doesn’t know if his messed up vision is due to tears or to the ceaseless screaming in his mind that shoots agony through his skull and down into his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last item he pulls out is his famous pumpkin pies. In any other situation, Sam would be incredibly saddened at the idea of throwing these perfectly good pies out. After all, what if someone got hungry? What if Tommy hasn’t had dinner yet? What if someone is having a bad day and the taste of one of his pies, made with love, warms their spirits? But in this situation, Sam feels grateful to throw them down and watch them sink through the floor into oblivion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voices immediately pull back and sam falls to the floor. He lays sprawled out, as much as he can be, in the confined space. His long legs are bent awkwardly and the obsidian digs into his back painfully. But the pressure isn’t as crushing, and all Sam can feel is gratitude. The voices aren’t gone completely, they’re still wrapping around his head, ever-present and ever demanding, but they are nowhere near the painful level as before. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been hours. How many? Sam isn’t sure. He hasn’t moved since he had tossed all his stuff and had fallen. He had cried, intermittently, sobs taking over him and tears falling down his face at the pure feeling of anguish in his body. The voices never went away. It’s awful how they stay circling his mind. Thoughts that aren’t his own wiggling their way in. Telling him things, telling him to comply, telling everything and nothing, pain and beauty all at once. He can’t cry anymore, he’s too tired, and he doesn’t think he has any tears left. His stomach growls. When was the last time he ate? The voices perk up, as if excited. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Even more time has passed. His limbs feel stiff from not moving and his stomach clenches painfully every few minutes. His head is starting to feel foggy again. He groans. He can’t stand the feeling of the cold dark blocks surrounding him anymore. He feels weak, the lack of food making him light-headed, but he slowly pulls himself to his feet. A wave a pain hits him from his stomach, demanding sustenance if he is planning on burning even more calories by moving. It knocks the breath out of him, causing him to keel over a bit and support his weight by resting his arm on the obsidian. The pain eventually washes away into more of a background noise, though nothing compared to the voices talking in an increasingly excited tone in his head. It scares him, what does the egg have to be excited about? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t have time to think of an answer as his arm slips from the wall and pain floods his body. He screams and grabs his arm, wondering what the hell happened. It burns when he touches it, and blood immediately covers his hand. He rips his hand back from the wound but the pain is incessant. He cannot see the wound but he can feel where it is, and it seems to span the entirety of a side of his forearm. He can’t help but pull his arm close to his body as if trying to hide it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell of rotten flesh hits his nose and he looks around confused. Obviously, there is nothing to see in the darkness but still, Sam almost expects to see a zombie close by. If you can’t see it or hear it, you can definitely tell a zombie is nearby by the smell of his decaying body. That’s what Sam smells right now. But there shouldn’t be a zombie anywhere near him. The egg room was well lit, nothing should be able to spawn, and even if it had how could he be able to smell through the thick walls of obsidian? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The power in his head nudges his thoughts in a direction, a direction that makes Sam promptly feel sick. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of the thought but the voices are unyielding. Unwanted curiosity rises in Sam and the voices take that and run. Eager and desperate they push him to investigate. Sam slowly raises his arm to his face and breathes in deeply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls back with a gag, the overpowering smell of decay and rot floods his senses. He coughs, trying to expel the scent, but it’s impossible. Now that Sam knows where the smell is coming from he can’t block it out. He can feel the gaping wound in his arm. There are steady drops of blood flowing out and landing on the ground with a soft plop. He hesitates but slowly feels around the edges of the injury. He prods until he comes across a point too close to the wound, making him hiss. The wound is large, a chunk of his flesh appears to have fallen off completely. The skin around the wound is soft, squishy, like spoiled fruit. Some bits scare him, as they feel like if he touches them too much they might fall off like the previous patch of flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes a shaky breath. Feeling light-headed he lowers himself to the ground with his one good arm. The voices seem positively delighted at the turn of the events. He leans back against the wall trying to take steady breaths. He wills himself to calm down, he has to calm down in order to take care of this situation. God was this a situation. His measured breathing works to no avail as the voices start to swarm his head. Making him think different thoughts. Bringing his attention to something else. His painfully starving stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groans as he grips his belly as a surge of hunger washes over him. He has to do something about this. It feels like his stomach is going to start eating itself. He feels frustration rise in him, there’s literally nothing else inside the box with him, there’s nothing he can do. The voices are giddy in anticipation. Anticipation for what? Sam feels the power, the egg, wrap around him purring and smug. It tells him something very important. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is now something else inside the box with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like the noose has tightened. The strings have been jabbed into and secured inside his brain. With only a little bit of nudging Sam uses his good hand to pat around the floor of the obsidian box, before finally landing on something soft. He hesitantly picks it up and holds it in front of himself. The rancid smell of the decomposing flesh is even stronger with this piece. His lips curl in disgust at the smell and the texture of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly the voices swell; demanding, excited, greedy, all at once. The rush of noise almost makes him drop the piece of meat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meat...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s meat</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>no</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No No No No No No No</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’s so hungry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The egg is comforting. It's suffocating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to eat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hurts, but</span>
</p><p>
  <span>please</span>
</p><p>
  <span>please don’t make him do this</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There has to be something else. Anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows there isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows what’s expected of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he's so hungry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voices. The egg. The power. They tighten their hold. They release him. They smother him. They free him. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a bite. </span>
</p>
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